Sins of the Father

by Vincent B Davis II

  As the flames extinguished and the ashes of the saint’s image began to sift through their fingers, everyone in the room stood and clapped for them. Each member at the table lined up, and kissed all three of them on the cheek.

  “Welcome to the onorata societa,” they all said as they passed by.

  The table was then cleared, and food was brought out. Glasses of whiskey were given to each member at the table, and everyone saluted the three of them.

  They dined on spaghetti agilo ed olio and told stories of their tradition. The men around the room spoke to Sonny like his fraternity brothers would speak to members who’d finally lost their virginities. He didn’t have time to consider the oath he had just made, to imagine how it would change his life. He simply listened to what everyone said, and reflected on how his father had once sat in the same seat, and had eaten the same meal.

  After they had finished their meals, Maranzano stood by the exit, and addressed each member as they left.

  Sonny, Buster, and Charlie Buffalo waited at the end of the line. Maranzano had obviously already considered what each man could bring to the war efforts, and he explained it to them as they left.

  When Sonny approached, Maranzano’s face lit up.

  “Vincente, my boy.” He kissed his cheek.

  “I had no idea this was going to happen,” Sonny said.

  “You deserve it. You have earned a place in your father’s society. I know you will honor our tradition.” He embraced Sonny, firmly, like Alonzo always had.

  “I will,” Sonny said.

  “You will be so valuable to this family. We will need you in the days ahead. I will need you,” Maranzano said. “I believe your business savvy can be used to coordinate weapon and ammo supply chains from our various supporters.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And don’t forget to keep an eye on my foreign investments,” Maranzano said, and laughed, infecting the whole room with geniality. Sonny kissed his cheek and stepped past him, but stopped to listen to what Maranzano said to Buster.

  “Sebastiano, I am honored to have you with me.”

  “Thank you, Don Maranzano,” Buster said, and lowered his head with reverence.

  “And I feel much safer, as well.” Maranzano smiled and looked to some of the elder members who stood around the room. “There is no better sharpshooter in our ranks. When Masseria is eliminated, I would wager any amount of money that it is Buster who pulls the trigger.”

  “You do me too much honor.”

  “I do not misjudge people, Buster. I know that you will fight for us well, and will help us defeat this tyrant.” He turned again to others in the room. “Buster is from Chicago. I requested personally that he come here to fight for us. Caesar needed his centurions, like Maranzano needs his Buster.” They kissed cheeks and parted.

  Sonny walked out with Buster, neither of them saying anything as they approached the Cadillac waiting outside. Sonny wanted to say something. He wanted to tell Buster that he shouldn’t be doing this, not with a new wife at home. But he couldn’t think of the right words.

  “The only thing I care about is protecting your sister, Sonny,” Buster said as he opened the door and hopped into the driver’s seat.

  “Is that right? So much so that you’ll vow to place these men over her?” The irony of the statement wasn’t lost on Sonny, but regardless, he didn’t have a wife.

  “Sonny.” Buster turned to his brother-in-law, who had slid into the passenger seat. “Nothing will ever come before your sister. I will murder half of New York if it means she is safe, if it means I can buy her a new dress and make sure she has food on the table. I’d do anything for her, Sonny.”

  Sonny fell silent. Buster was exaggerating, but from what Maranzano had been saying, killing half of New York might actually be required.

  Buster

  East Village, Manhattan—August 15, 1930

  “I just wanted to hear your voice,” Buster said. He pulled the phone closer, as if it would somehow bring him closer to Maria herself.

  “I thought you wouldn’t be able to call?” she said. Her voice was more concerned than accusatory. He could tell she missed him just as much as he missed her.

  “I shouldn’t be. I really shouldn’t…” He sat down in the Ritz-Carlton phone booth, and looked over his shoulder to make sure the guys weren’t watching him too closely. They’d be sure to rib him if they knew he was talking to his wife.

  “Are you safe?” she asked. She still didn’t know the nature of what was going on, and she certainly didn’t know it involved Sonny, but her suspicions had been aroused, as well as her fear.

  “Yeah, I’m safe. You have everything you need? Food, money, anything?”

  “I’m fine, Buster,” she said, her voice soft and sweet.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’m hoping this business will be finished soon. The moment it is, I’ll be back on our doorstep.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise. I wouldn’t spend a minute away from you if I didn’t have to.” He looked again over his shoulder, feeling silly and effeminate for such talk, but it came from the most honest part of his heart.

  “Well, then, hurry up and get it finished.” He smiled. She had no idea what that meant, but her support meant everything to him.

  “And, Maria?”

  “Yeah?”

  “While I’m out here, I’m not seeing no other girls or anything,”

  “Don’t you know anything about women? I hadn’t thought about it once since you left, and now I won’t be able to think of anything else.” There was just enough humor in her voice to make him laugh.

  “Yeah, I guess I don’t.”

  “You foolish man.”

  “Maria…” Charlie Buffalo beat on the glass of the phone booth and waved for him to come on. Buster held up a finger to quiet him. “Maria, I love you.”

  “Come on, Buster!” Charlie shouted and knocked against the glass again.

  “So nice of you to say so,” Maria said, just as defiantly as always.

  “Anything you want to tell me?” he asked, gesturing for Charlie to shut the hell up.

  “Well, I just don’t know what you mean,” she said, toying with him.

  “Come on, Maria,” he said, his irritation with Charlie coming out in his voice.

  “Fine. I love you,” she said.

  “Sorry, Maria. I got to go. I’ll call when I can.”

  “Goodbye,” she said, her voice barely audible. He waited until the line clicked to hang up the phone. There was always something more he wanted to say.

  “What in the hell is so important?” Buster said, stepping out of the phone booth, moving like he was on a warpath. He noticed that Charlie’s face was grim, serious enough that he checked himself. “What is it?”

  “Someone spotted Morello. Old Caesar gave us the nod to make the hit.”

  Buster stopped in his tracks.

  He heard Maria’s voice: Well, then, hurry up and get it finished.

  “Okay. Let’s take care of him.”

  Sonny

  Glen Oaks, Queens—August 15, 1930

  Sonny’s new safe house was lonelier than his apartment. Bonanno came by occasionally to check on him; Antonello, Buster, and Charlie Buffalo visited every few days; and even Maranzano had slept on the couch one evening after refusing to take Sonny’s bed. Most of the time, though, Sonny was alone. He busied himself making calls to the Castellammarese allies in Detroit and Chicago, and writing down cryptic ledgers from the orders they would receive.

  A cat had appeared on his doorstep a few weeks prior, and Sonny had tried to shoo it away. The cat was determined to make entry, and Sonny eventually let it in. He dubbed the cat Pete, and he shared his breakfast with him every morning. In time, Pete became a source of comfort for him, but more than anything, Sonny was left with a volley of thoughts. Most of them about his father.

  As he looked in the mirror and adjusted his tie and overcoat, he could see bits of h
is father in the reflection. He hoped his father would be proud. He imagined what it would be like to see him again, and be greeted with a bear hug and a big kiss. “I’m so proud of you, Sonny Boy,” he might say when he learned that Sonny had joined the tradition. Alonzo hadn’t felt that way with Enzo and Vico, but they had just been kids, and they hadn’t followed his instructions. Sonny had always wanted to be everything that his father was, and his father had always been proud of this. Why wouldn’t he want him to follow in his footsteps?

  The horn of Antonello’s car blared outside. It was time to go.

  He hoped that by killing Morello, he might be able to put his father to rest in a way that he had thus far been unable to do.

  “See ya, Pete,” Sonny said, and scratched the cat’s chin, then hurried out the door.

  “Old Caesar has you all spread so far throughout the city, I wonder if we’re even gonna make it on time,” Antonello said, throwing up a middle finger to the cars honking at him as he flew by.

  “Try to not get pulled over on the way, Antonello. The last thing we need is the bulls seeing a car full of guineas with guns.”

  The lunch-hour traffic was buzzing past—half of the cars honking along the way—as Sonny and Antonello pulled up outside the Ritz-Carlton hotel in the East Village.

  Buster was smoking a cigarette with Charlie Buffalo on the curb. Buster turned to enter, but Charlie only gave a nod and returned indoors.

  “Charlie ain’t coming?” Antonello asked.

  “No. The fewer we bring, the more likely we are to make it out alive,” Buster said, fastening his seat belt.

  Sonny noticed the violin case Buster had brought with him.

  “You gonna teach us some lessons on the way over?” he asked, still not pleased that Maranzano had ordered Buster to be present for the hit.

  Buster slowly unfastened the locks and opened the case, revealing a well-oiled tommy gun.

  “We wouldn’t make it in there without concealing it. And you can’t fit one of these in your overcoat,” Buster said. Antonello’s face lit up with excitement when he saw the Thompson submachine gun within.

  “Madonna mia, the Hook Hand won’t know what hit him.”

  “Yeah, he will. He’s as slippery as an eel and as cunning as a fox. We can’t underestimate him,” Buster said, lighting another cigarette.

  “You nervous?” Sonny asked.

  Buster thought about it, then shrugged. “Yeah. Shouldn’t I be?”

  “Yeah,” Sonny said, feeling the revolver in his jacket and suddenly feeling underprepared.

  They arrived in East Harlem just before one o’clock.

  “Ready?” Buster asked Sonny. He felt glued to the seat. He could hardly move. He had never killed before. “Sonny?”

  The only corpse Sonny had ever seen up close was his own father’s. That image was enough to encourage him to unbuckle himself.

  “I’m ready. Let’s go.” Sonny followed Buster out the car door.

  “When it’s done, hurry up and get back to the car. There are a lot of people here today, so we can use that as cover, but the bulls will be here fast,” Antonello said, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

  Buster led the way into the office building. Sonny followed close behind, but kept becoming distracted by those they passed by. Every suspicious glance concerned him. Do they know? he wondered, but he kept moving forward regardless.

  They took the elevator to the fourth floor. The bellhop tried to keep his eyes forward but seemed aware of their ethnicity.

  “Private lessons,” Buster said, tapping on the violin case.

  “I’d love to learn,” the bellhop said as they arrived on their floor.

  Buster strolled out, and Sonny following his example, but as the elevator shut, they picked up the pace.

  Buster pulled out the tommy gun as they arrived at a set of oak doors that read: “United Lathing Company.” Morello was said to be inside, conducting business as usual, as if he weren’t at war.

  Sonny put his hand on the doorknob and looked at Buster to ensure he was ready. He returned a nod, Sonny finally experiencing what he imagined his brother Vico had experienced in combat. As he opened the door, Buster took a leap inside. Before Sonny could even round the corner, Buster was unloading.

  The sound was deafening, but Sonny could still make out the screams of the receptionists in other offices across the hall. They had to hurry.

  There were three men inside. It was easy to spot Morello. He was the least disturbed. He was hunkered down behind his desk, and remained still as the wood splintered around him. The other two froze like frightened deer, easy targets for Buster’s volley of bullets.

  Sonny pulled out the revolver. He had six shots. He wanted to save them for Morello. One of Morello’s associates crumbled to the floor. The other ran to the window, clutching a bullet in his arm, and lunged out the glass onto the city streets.

  “I hit him, Sonny,” Buster shouted, shooting off a few bursts to keep Morello pinned.

  “Don’t say my name!” Sonny cried, realizing now that his breaths were shallow and labored.

  Sonny sprinted across the room, and Buster held off the trigger as Sonny entered his lane of fire. His hands shook violently on the revolver extended out from him. But he remembered the image of his father on the barbershop floor, and moved around the desk to where Morello was lying.

  Blood was pooling over Morello’s scowling lips, but he held a pistol out in front of him. Morello shot, and the bullet ripped through the muscle and tissue of Sonny’s shoulder.

  Sonny’s hand trembled, his eyes flittered, but he fired before Morello could do so again. To his surprise, when he was recomposed, Sonny saw that Morello had a gaping hole the size of a baseball in his chest.

  He hurried to the Hook Hand and kicked the pistol from the man’s weakening grip.

  Morello, still alive, look up to him with hate in his eyes.

  “You killed my father,” Sonny said, holding the gun out in front of himself like a shield.

  “Sonny, hurry up,” Buster said, composed as he grabbed his violin case and locked up his tommy gun.

  “I didn’t,” Morello said, his voice carrying the wheeze of shattered lungs.

  “You took my father from me!” Sonny pulled the trigger. Then again. In rapid succession, he fired the gun until it snapped into an empty cartridge.

  “He’s dead, Sonny, come on,” Buster said, locking the doors they had entered through.

  Sonny reached into his trouser pocket and brandished a deck of cards. His fondest memories were of playing cards with his father. He remembered how he would laugh endlessly when his father would allow him to cuss. Morello had taken that away from him; he had taken that away from Alonzo’s future grandchildren. He pulled out a King of Hearts and placed it in Morello’s limp hand—to represent the man that Morello had killed.

  “There’s a fire escape over here.” Buster led the way once more. Sonny took one last look over his shoulder, at the mutilated body of the Hook Hand. He was almost sad it would be the last time he would see him. He would have liked to kill him again.

  Vico

  East Harlem, Manhattan—September 5, 1930

  Vico started drinking again. And probably even worse than before.

  The hunt for Alonzo’s killer had halted. After Reina got whacked, they had clear targets. Ronaldo was the first to go, and at least Vico received some satisfaction in pumping bullets into him. Afterward, they tried to find Patsy, but he was discovered dead by his wife before they could get to him.

  After that, he waited for orders. But days turned to weeks, week into months, months into half a year. Still, Gagliano wasn’t ready to move. Pinzolo traveled around with a pack of bodyguards, probably knowing that, as a puppet for Masseria, there were plenty of guys who didn’t like him.

  Vico spent most of those months alone. Sometimes Enzo would visit him at his new place in Harlem, but it wasn’t exactly hospitable. Things were different between
them now, anyways. At first, they’d explained the difference by saying they were trying to keep up appearances, hiding the fact that they were brothers. But after a while, it became clear that the tight bond that had once existed between them was now severed. Vico thought he intimidated Enzo. He looked at him strangely, with eyes full of suspicion, as if he was wondering when he might find himself on the other end of Vico’s gun.

  Vico told himself that it was all cowardice. Gangsters like Enzo were all talk, just like Reina said. They were tough when they were breaking into a joint, terrifying when they were sticking up some rich fool, they could torture a man in cold blood when he was strung up, but when it came down to getting your hands dirty and doing what needed to be done, they shivered. Even Gagliano, with all of his talk about “my family” and “killing that greaseball” had come up short. For all of his bravado, Vico thought he trembled internally at the thought of a war with Masseria.

  Vico wanted answers, and he wanted revenge. Short of that, there was nothing else he wanted except a bottle of rotgut whiskey and the occasional company of a girl from the Rainbow Gardens.

  “Who is going to avenge Dad, if we don’t?” he had asked Enzo when he visited one night. “Sonny?” Vico chuckled at the thought.

  “Maybe no one needs to, Vico. Dad was obviously involved. That’s what happens in this life,” Enzo had replied, but Vico knew he hadn’t meant it. Revenge was inevitable. Enzo wanted it too, even if he couldn’t admit it or bring himself to do what must be done.

  But Vico would. He kept his eyes open and his ears pinned back, and the moment he found out what happened, someone was going to die.

  The phone began to ring, amplifying the pain in Vico’s head.

  He stumbled to his feet and walked to the phone, his legs like wet noodles beneath him.

  “Yeah?” he answered, rubbing his eyes.